Loving Lupin: Dumbledore, Harry, and Jesus

Commenting on the place of the werewolf (and other evil creatures) in history and literature, Siamak Tundry Nacify offers the following observation:

Throughout history, we have attributed onto others what we viewed as undesirable in ourselves, finding scapegoats upon which we could pin our notions of fault and blame and whose sacrificial death then could bring atonement. In this way, we put our sins upon the wolf and then put the wolf, instead of ourselves, to death – in literature, in folklore, in myth, in films, and, unfortunately too often, in real life. (“The Werewolf in the Wardrobe,” in The Psychology of Harry Potter, page 210).

This is an important observation – that we create evil beings which are really a representation of our own evil, and then make sure they get killed in our stories (we, of course, are the heroes who do the killing). In doing so, we believe we purge the evil from ourselves by taking the side of the good.

Not only do we create werewolves to kill, we ostracize the perceived abnormal and the diseased in order to have a place to point the finger, to make assumptions, and to believe, “At least I’m not like that.” It happened in the past with lepers; it happens today with victims of HIV/AIDS. Nacify notes that “there is a high cost in social interactions with diseased others,” making it socially important to “quickly…identify sick individuals and to avoid interacting with them” (p. 214).

The problem, of course, is that human evil still runs rampant across the earth and in each one of us. Despite the many times we’ve slain werewolves, vampires, and dragons in our daydreams and stories, it is not so easy to separate ourselves from our darker sides. Despite all the times we’ve attempted to avoid the “diseased others” in our society, we find ourselves excluded by somebody, and greatly offended because of it – making us hypocrites, of course.

I think Rowling knows this, and while her use of the werewolf Lupin illustrates our folly in scapegoating quite profoundly, she also offers a substantive solution to the problem: self-sacrifice, instead of the sacrifice of others.

Lupin serves the roles of scapegoat and diseased others very well, fitting the literary and psychological need for a person to blame as well as the “diseased other,” having been contaminated in his blood by a bite from another diseased other. And if there was ever a bad guy to be avoided, it’s Fenrir Greyback! But you see how easy it is to make false assumptions about someone like Lupin. While Remus is nothing at all like Fenrir, it is more than likely that most people in the Wizarding World, upon learning Lupin’s secret, would be much more likely to impute the evil character of Greyback upon his name, rather than the good character of Dumbledore.

In place of stigmatization, Rowling offers us the self-sacrificial character of Dumbledore. The radical difference is this: while the rest of the Wizarding World points the finger at assumed evil – werewolves are evil, kill them! – in order to purge itself of its own guilt, Dumbledore looks into the face of his would-be killer, the racist Slytherin Draco Malfoy, and offers him redemption and protection before dying for him. Instead of saying, “Let’s sacrifice werewolves, Death Eaters, Slytherins, etc., for the cause of good,” Dumbledore says, “I am willing to die. I’ll be the one to be sacrificed.” It is the willing sacrifice of the one who does not deserve it that has transformative power, the power to destroy evil with good. (Sounds a lot like M. Scott Peck, doesn’t it?)

Not only is Dumbledore willing to die for others, to be the sacrifice, he does not shun the “diseased others.” Indeed, one of the most powerful aspects of Dumbledore’s character is his willingness to graciously accept anyone. Who but Dumbledore would have the mercy to forgive Severus Snape and take him on as a confidante? Who besides Dumbledore would have actually clapped, out of courtesy and respect, at the end of Delores Umbridge’s start-of-year speech in Order? Who but Dumbledore would think it appropriate to show manners to Death Eaters, standing before him on the tower, mocking him? Who else would be trusting of werewolves, half-giants, centaurs, mer-people, and every other magical being that the Ministry has ostracized?

Harry, Dumbledore’s apprentice, is slowly but surely learning this. He learned it from his mother’s sacrifice. He learned it by watching Dumbledore. He has learned it in the yearly figurative death-resurrection pattern of each volume of the series. He has most certainly shown a willingness to die for the right cause book by book. He has befriended the social outcasts: Lupin, Hagrid, Luna, Neville. He has more to learn before the close of Deathly Hallows, but learn it he will, and he will save the world because of it.

If indeed Rowling is influenced by the Christian story, and we have every reason to think she is, this theme fits perfectly with the person of Jesus. While Dumbledore and Harry are not “Christ figures” in the direct way the Aslan was to Narnia (both Dumbledore and Harry are deeply flawed human beings), they are conduits for the Christ-message, the proclamation of sacrificial love’s victory over evil and death. Jesus is the epitome of these themes: He touched lepers. He ate with prostitutes, corrupt tax collectors, and the worst sinners of society. He was not afraid of diseased others; in fact, he seemed to prefer their company to that of the finger-pointing Pharisees. And ultimately, his entire life was a rush toward the evil-defeating, death-destroying, self-sacrificial love of the cross on behalf of his own enemies.

He demanded that people put down their accusatory stones and pick up their own crosses, and this is the message Rowling is communicating so powerfully through Dumbledore and Harry.